Dealing with it at the Pitch
by Ivanisagrave
Summary: A few years after the war Ron is tries to cope with everything that has happened.


Ron wasn't himself lately. No, he was, but not the Ron that everyone knew and expected him to be. He was confused and lost and completely unable to control his thoughts. He needed to find something to take his mind off of his mind, or something to help him sort it all out. Sitting in his living room he looked up, his poster of the Chudley Cannons slapping him, not literally, in the face. Of course, quidditch. That was his go-to stress relief when he was in school, how did he let it slip his mind? He stood from his place and walked slowly into his bedroom. There was a moment where he just stood in the doorway debating his choice of action, but then decided he was in the right. Looking into the back of the closet he found his old broom, the one Bill bought him right after the war; a Nimbus 2000. For a moment he stood there observing the tool in his hands. There was a smoothness of the wood that was immediately calming to him. The tips of his fingers traced over the elegant lettering at the tail before running over the smooth, aerodynamic bristles.

Without a second thought, mostly because if he were to think about it he'd have talked himself out of it, he picked up the broom and a quaffle and turned on his heel. In a split second he appeared in the open field that he shared only with Tracey. Standing in the center he looked around at the tall trees masking his personal spot, nodding to himself. This would do, yes it would. He pulled out his wand and transfigured a tree into a tall, golden ring before charming the quaffle to return to him when it's thrown. Mounting his broom with the ball under his arm he kicked off carefully. He wobbled a moment, but only because it'd been about a year and a half since he'd even touched a broom at all.

Hovering there for a second he looked down at the world below. It was so small, so overwhelming. His chest tightened as his mind flooded. He really was just a small part of a huge world; insignificant in the world of all people, not making a difference. From where he was there were trees and looking out he could see the town of people walking and talking together. Together. They were all together. With more than one of them they were distinguishable and made an indent, but there was no one here…there was no one with him. He had Hermione, but she had her life and he had nothing to do with that. No matter how much he thought about it he couldn't see himself being friends with her friends. There just wasn't anything there for him. He closed his eyes and pulled up a little and let his stomach fall with that thought. Loneliness was scary and he was raising higher and away from the idea of it all.

When he opened his eyes he was well above the ground, but that was okay. There was distance between him and everything that he was running from. His family problems, Hermione and her need to make their relationship more than he was ready for, Tracey and how much she knew him, and so many other people that flooded his mind with thoughts and insecurities that he already had. There was nothing he needed more than to run from it all, well, maybe a really strong drink…or a bender, but neither were acceptable Weasley behavior. With one swift movement his hand felt the quaffle slip from his fingers and towards the tall goal post. It missed, bouncing off of the metal circle. Part of him wanted to curse, but the other part of him knew it was going to happen. Missing was his thing, messing up was his thing. If he told Hermione how he felt, that'd mess everything up. If he talked to anyone about the feelings he had, he'd mess that up. If he stopped long enough to feel anything, his heart would be messed up. He was so afraid that he may never love again. If he opened this bar, it was sure to flop. When the quaffle came back to him he let his hands leave the broom long enough to catch it. Still, he sat there for a moment palming the ball before zooming, almost angrily, towards the goal post. He thew it; score. It came back and he threw it again; score. And again. And again. With each throw he felt his chest tighten and eventually he let out a scream with the throw. The scream was angry for it all. The quaffle came back, but he didn't catch it. In fact, the ball hit him square in the eye immediately darkening his pale skin. He felt the tears fall, but not from the hit. Slowly he felt the nose of his broom point down and he inched towards the grass. Eventually, only a few feet from the ground, he slipped off of the handle and let the instrument fall to the grass as he leaned against the base of the ring, sobbing almost uncontrollably. For the first time since the war, he felt completely and utterly vulnerable with himself and he couldn't stop.

At the base, his knees pulled to his chest and his face buried into his body. Why? Why did everyone stop loving him…or leave when he cared? Tracey left him. No matter how much he understood there was more pain in that than he admitted. Harry stopped talking to him. Fred died and left him George. George was so hurt, so gone that there was no way that Ron was ever going to see him as he was ever again. He had watched countless people die at the hands of one man and none of him could comprehend why. Why them? Why the innocent? Why the children? Nothing inside his was okay and his entire body was quivering and quaking as he tried so hard to stop his mind from taking a turn for the worst. Embracing his thoughts was the last thing he planned to do. The war ruined everyone, it ruined his life, and there was no way, at least no that he could see, that he was ever going to be happy ever again. Ever.


End file.
